A/N: Two chapters after this one! Oh, tear. Kay. Thanks to nobodies nobody, SMP, and Stacey, and to my faithful, old reviewers. Er… I don't have anything to say really for this author's note.

Lock and Key

Chapter 33

The Final had been no easy task, and definitely the most nasty game Harry had ever participated in during his seven years. So, when Gryffindor won, it made the victory all the more sweeter. It caused a chain of events to take place, with one of the last being the guarantee of an all night celebration in the common room.

The score had been 60-50, Slytherin. Lauren had just made a penalty shot for a Slytherin Beater hurling his club at her head and making contact. There were not many points but the game, or war (for use of a better word), had been raging on for some time. Every single player had been hurt at least once, and physical damage was visible on all of them. Hooch had sounded her whistle so much, the point of fouls seemed inane. Macmillan's voice had gone hoarse from the excitement and commentating. Ron had, thankfully, decided to Keep once more, and had done a superb job. Harry, with a bleeding lip and torn robes, yelled various things to his teammates when he was near them. A doubled over Malfoy (Bludger to the stomach) with a small bruise on his cheek did much the same.

A black eyed Ginny had defiantly dodged four of the Slytherin fliers and put the Quaffle through a goalpost, making it 60-60, when the Snitch whizzed into view. Harry and Malfoy glanced at one another, the golden ball, then gave frenzied chase. It seemed like they were in pursuit of it for an eternity, when in reality it had only been 30 seconds. Seven years of vexation, hostility, resentment, and hate all seemed to flow out of Harry as his hand grasped the Snitch, snagging it not one foot from the grass, with the Slytherin right on his tail. The Head Boy pulled up defeated and Harry smashed into the ground, but he did not care—Gryffindor had won.

The lions lost total control. His team lost total control. Riley and numerous others lost total control. Ernie pointlessly tried to roar over the thunderous, joyous screams as people began to scramble to get to the Quidditch victors. A banged up Harry could not stop grinning as his team contently ambushed each other, yelling, smiling, laughing and crying; they had done it. As a massive mob formulated down on the field, Malfoy hung suspended in the air near the despairing serpents, looking crestfallen and infuriated at the same time. Ron was also still in the air, and solely celebrated in his elation. Well, the Cup was theirs, yet again.

After things had settled down a bit some 20 minutes later, and the Gryffindor Quidditch team had been properly awarded its trophy by the headmaster (with Ron in tow), Bert Riley came onto the pitch. Malfoy, who stood on the sidelines with his team, glared at him with a squalid look, arms crossed. Riley wore a grin larger than usual, if possible, and was positively bouncing as he spoke of Hogwarts' amazing matches, competitors, the Final, and Gryffindor. He then announced he would call the names of his Department's top choices, and all brightened. Two students were picked from each House, and all, with the exception of Lauren Chid, were seventh years. (He explained that her abilities were remarkable and she'd have a spot on a team reserved, and might consider looking into some of them).

The kids felt faint upon hearing their names as their peers proudly rooted for them, and could not believe it was really happening. Professional Quidditch! It was with much exuberance that Riley stated "Harry Potter!" as Gryffindor's other pick. He received the most applause, by far, and was dumbstruck, rooted to the spot. His team, albeit Ron, was terribly thrilled and encouraged him. Perhaps he should have foreseen it, but he hadn't; it was like being dosed in a tub of ice water. Malfoy could have broken his broom from sheer anger, and might have, but it suddenly disappeared when the scout called his name. This woke Harry up with a jolt, and his attention shot over to his rival. The blonde was smiling and his gray eyes shone with dark pleasure. Slytherin, having something to celebrate, exploded with praise. Great, thought Harry, eyes narrowed.

The young Irishman's parting words were to inform the chosen eight that they would receive packets from the League sometime in late June, with all of the information they would need or want. Their decisions had to be made by the end of July.

"I do hope you all say yes," Riley said. Then, turning back to everyone, "I've truly enjoyed my time here at Hogwarts, and hope to be back next Quidditch season!" The man whom had been with them for several weeks left to much acclaim.

The Gryffindors carried their happiness for the rest of the day, into dinner, and absolutely into the party that commenced at ten that night. The team players were stars, given much attention, and the captain was the most prominent. Countless people congratulated Harry on his accomplishment and probed as to what his Quidditch plans were. What team? Would he continue to be a Seeker? Would he enjoy a break before diving into it? He answered them as best he could. Ron was pretty much subdued after the match, but at around eight o'clock grew irritated with Harry once more (or rather his fame), and avoided being anywhere near him. The jealously began flooding back. Of course he was offered a position on one of Britain's Quidditch teams—he was the fabulous Harry Potter. Strangely enough, another out of place voice told him to stop being immature and just drop it….

Harry only stayed at the party for an hour, and spent most of the 60 minutes seated at a table with Hermione drinking butterbeer. (He did, of course, make time for his pleased friends). At eleven he kissed her cheek and bid her goodnight, hoping desperately that she would decide to come to his bed later. The last visit had been on Wednesday; he had spent the proceeding night alone. Harry shook off Gryffindors wanting him to stay, claiming exhaustion, and went to his empty room.

At midnight, Harry was still miraculously awake and missing his girlfriend horribly. (The party downstairs continued to rage). Just as he miserably concluded he would experience another lonely night, two warm arms circled his chest.

"I'm very proud of you," a female voice whispered in his ear. Thrilled, he turned around to face her.

"Are you?" he wondered.

"Of course. Though, you had me terrified when you rammed into the ground like that in the end."

"I always do that." Harry smiled, pulling her closer. His hand ran the length of her leg, igniting hormones.

"And it always terrifies me," Hermione breathed, begging to place her fingers in his hair, "I hate Quidditch." Nothing more was said as he covered her mouth with his, initiating a passionate kiss and causing her to sigh. Not too long after, he freed an arm and it violently, and unsuccessfully, searched behind him for his wand. Making a noise of protest into his mouth, Hermione grabbed it and placed it back on her hip. She did not say it, but Harry had nothing to worry about. She had placed the Silencing Charm on the four poster upon entrance.

At 3:30 in the morning, McGonagall came stamping into the common room, decked in a nightgown and robe, and barked that the party was over (Saturday or no Saturday), or every Gryffindor present would receive detention. While the students stalked to their rooms in a surly manner and had thoughts of continuing the celebration the next night, Harry and Hermione lay asleep. Her head was buried in his chest and his arms were wrapped protectively around her. At 3:43, when all five of the seventh year boys were back in their beds and knocked out, Harry's scar prickled. The Boy Who Lived frowned in his sleep.

Friday night marked Hermione's permanent fixture in Harry's bed. She stole into the boys' dormitory every night after that to sleep platonically with her boyfriend, by means of his Invisibility Cloak. Harry knew that if they were ever found out, it would surely lead to misinterpretations and consequences, but he did not care.

Gryffindor partied all weekend, but the week right after the Final was an extreme turn of events: intense studying. Exams were too close to contemplate, and the fifth and seventh years were in a panic. They had rather put off preparing for OWLs and NEWTs, and now had to catch up. The Gryffindors had been the most thrown off coarse since all of the recent, dramatic incidents (regarding Harry) had occurred in their House and affected them the most. Hermione had definitely stopped obsessing over NEWTs after Harry's fight with Ron, and seemingly forgot them after the prophecy revelation, but it all came rushing back to her.

"Of course, I had other things on my mind rather than NEWTs," she reported on Tuesday afternoon, flipping rapidly through a book and holding a quill, "More important things…"

"But NEWTs are important to you, Hermione." Harry assured, his own Charms book open. They sat in the common room.

"Well, yes, but… they seemed pointless compared to… to other…," she noted, eyes cast down and scribbling notes, "I just wish I hadn't ignored studying completely!" In all truth, she had put it aside for Harry and what he (they) had been going through. He realized this and felt guilt. Harry knew how hard this must be for Hermione, of all students; performing well academically was her forte!

Professors began to lose their sanity, in Harry's opinion. They gave out elaborate homework on top of extensive essays on top of more murderous homework. They claimed it was to help the pupils ready for their exams, but Harry was positive it was intended to kill them. (Thank Merlin Quidditch was over). On Wednesday, Flitwick passed out stacks of parchment that felt as if they weighed two pounds. Harry's hand trembled into the air as he stared at his.

"Um, sir?"

"Yes Harry?" questioned the teacher.

"What are these?" he asked.

"Why, your review guides of course."

"All of it?" pondered Dean.

"Yes Mr. Thomas, all of it." Flitwick agreed.

"You don't think it's a bit much!" Justin Finch-Fletchley inquired earnestly.

"I should think not. You are in a NEWT course for a reason, are you not?"

Higgins gave them a similarly weighted packet for Defense Against the Dark Arts, and McGonagall's for Transfiguration was larger.

"Are you all banding together, setting a weight requirement, and handing them out like Chocolate Frogs!" Ron testily remarked upon receiving his. Harry looked over in his direction and for a moment felt compelled to laugh. McGonagall, on the other hand, was not so amused.

"Excuse me?" she coldly asked, having stopped walking.

"What I think he's trying to say, Professor, is that we have… a lot of other work from our other classes as well." Susan Bones clarified. Others nodded their agreement. Hermione was looking at her guide and biting her lip, clearly deliberating.

"I understand that, Ms. Bones, but do you expect me to exempt you from Transfiguration work because of this?"

"Well, no, but…"

"You are seventh years in NEWT classes," the Head of Gryffindor told them, rather angrily, "Stop complaining. You are not first years and therefore are not receiving their amount of work. And, might I add, you are fortunate to have these guides in the first place! Plenty of professors would leave you to your own devices to prepare for the NEWTs." This seemed to be enough to quiet them.

"Sometimes I shudder to see how you will do in the real wizarding world," the animagus commented, completing passing out the parchment and looking icily at Ron. He grouchily smoothed out his paper.

Flitwick, McGonagall, and Higgins' packets combined were nothing compared to Snape's. His looked like a fourth of a textbook and felt as if it weighed as much as a newborn baby. Harry's mouth flew open when his was thrown carelessly at him. Others in Potions were leafing through it with tears in their eyes, while Malfoy was looking at it with indifference. Snape uttered not one word about it and put the instructions for the day on the board. As much as the students thought his guide was undoubtedly overwhelming and overbearing, no one expressed it. They had learned much in seven years with Severus Snape.

Dinner on Wednesday night was a weary one; all of the upper years were depressed.

"You haven't touched your food, Seamus," Lavender stated.

"I reckon if I prolong the meal, I won't have to go face my homework," he answered. Harry silently agreed with his friend. He had to do his Potions packet with Parvati after eating (they had decided to partner up) and a little of his Defense review.

Hermione was not showing up for dinner; she had opted to work through it. When Harry returned to the Tower, she was gone. The Marauder's Map told him she was in the Head Room, and he settled to bring her food from the kitchens. He promised Parvati he'd return in 15 minutes and set off to his task. The Head Girl, with parchment and books spread all around her on the table, was very grateful for the food he brought her. He left her to study without conversation and headed back to the common room.

Perhaps Harry was being selfish, but he feared that Hermione might not sleep with him that night. Indeed, by one a.m., she had yet to walk through the portrait hole. He forced himself to bed at a quarter till two and hardly had enough stamina to change. He fell asleep at roughly two a.m., only to be awaken 45 minutes later by a body slipping in next to his. He smiled groggily and rolled over.

"Didn't think… you'd come." Harry murmured, loosely ensnaring her.

"Always." Hermione claimed, already half-asleep. They kissed once, slowly, before falling asleep instantly.

…

Harry was confused. He was on a barren, desolate field. There was only gray sky for miles and miles, and the ground was smoking slightly. Harry looked around, helplessly. He was alone and lost…

Suddenly, the snap of a dead twig. Harry turned to his right expectantly. Sirius stood there.

"S-S-Sirius?" the boy croaked.

"Harry," he simply said. He was wearing splendid, deep blue robes and was well groomed.

"W-What… where—"

"You." Harry stared at his godfather.

"M-Me? Me, what?" he questioned.

"You. You are the one responsible for all of this." Sirius remarked.

"All of what?"

"Chaos, destruction, death."

"W-What?" Sirius faded out.

"Sirius!" Harry called, turning round and round frantically. Things had changed. This place was familiar… the Department of Mysteries. There. There was the dais, and the veil… and Sirius! Harry smiled until Padfoot began to fall through the veil, over and over again.

"SIRIUS!" The son of James Potter started for the dais until another Sirius approached him from the left. Harry ceased.

"Wh—"

"You are the reason for so many deaths, Harry," the ex-convict told him.

"N-No," he insisted, "I-I—"

"Yes! You are! Mine, your parents, the Diggory boy, the old man, innocent Muggles, Bertha Jorkins…"

"No," Harry said, shaking his head.

"You almost killed the blood traitor, Arthur Weasley, and your Mudblood girlfriend! The half-bred idiot Hagrid will die because of you! Many will! The Weasley boy will, your great Albus Dumbledore will! All of them," Sirius growled, eyes commencing to turn red and clenching Harry's arms, "All who know Harry Potter shall perish! All he loves! All who stand in the way of the Dark LORD!"

"NO!" he shouted, wrenching free. Sirius hissed and bared his fangs—

…

Harry's dazzling green eyes shot open. A cold sweat covered his forehead and his chest was heaving a great deal. Swallowing a lump in his throat, he wiped the perspiration from his face. He lay motionless for a moment or two, trying to steady his heart rate. After finding it satisfactory, Harry checked his watch. 5:48 a.m. That dream…. He turned over and looked at Hermione's placid face. Sirius had accused him of… of…. No; don't think about it. Gryffindor's Seeker gritted his teeth and closed his eyes. Go back to sleep. Try as he might, Harry had a difficult time doing so.

Harry was pulled out of Charms on Thursday in order to meet with McGonagall in her office.

"She'll be discussing your career plans with you," Hermione whispered to him as he gathered his things, "I had mine yesterday during Muggle Studies. We can talk about it later. Good luck!"

Harry knocked tentatively on her door.

"Come in Potter," McGonagall replied. He did so, "Have a seat." As he sat down in front of her desk, he searched the premises for a sign of cookies. She had developed a tendency for forcing them on him beginning fifth year.

"So," she briskly began, looking at him, "Still trying to become an Auror?"

"Er… I… yes," he stupidly answered.

"Well, your marks from sixth year were very good, and you've taken, and are taking, the necessary classes. You now must simply pass your courses in which you are currently enrolled, and receive enough, exemplary NEWTs…. Any concerns that you may not pass one or more of your subjects?" Harry thought of Potions for a split second. For all of the hell Snape had given him, he had made sure to spite the professor by performing well.

"No… I'm fine," he reported.

"Good," McGonagall half-smiled, "You must fill out an application to be accepted into the Auror program, Potter."

"Application?"

"Yes. It is due on June 28th of every year. You must go to the Ministry of Magic and obtain one from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Here is an old one from 1978." She handed it to him. He accepted it, starring. It was as thick as one of his study guides. Skimming it, he saw such questions as 'What is your family history on your father's side?', 'Do you have a favorite color? Why or why not?', and 'What is your opinion of Muggles? The Dark Arts?'.

"You'll need three letters of recommendation to accompany it," she reported, "I will gladly write one for you."

"When… when do you receive an answer?" Harry asked.

"By July tenth. If you are accepted, you then go in for an interview and eventually training," He continued to stare at the 1978 application, "It is two months of ten hour days that exhaust you of everything, Potter. It is only for the committed… though, you'll be fine." He looked at her at long last.

"Your father whethered it… so did Sirius." McGonagall revealed, a small, sad smile flickering on her face. He didn't reply, but looked back down at the application. So… he had roughly a month to decide between this, and Quidditch… the career of his adult life.

"Is everything all right Potter?" the cat animagus pondered, sensing something was on his mind. For a moment, Harry wanted to tell her his problem and be done with it. Perhaps she could help! Instead, he responded:

"Yes. Thanks, Professor." Harry stood up, trying a vapid smile, and grabbed his bag. He pushed the application back towards her.

"You may keep it, Potter—I have others."

At dinner, and just before they were to become slaves to their review packets along with their peers, Harry and Hermione talked about their career meetings with McGonagall. Apparently, Hermione was deliberating between being a mediator for Muggles or magical creatures in the Departments of International Magical Cooperation and Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, or working with books somehow.

"Perhaps I could teach Arithmancy and manage my own bookstore, t-that focuses on Muggle Studies," she excitedly pointed out, "But I could still have my own shop and be a mediator as well, right?" He smiled at her unique ambition, but noticed her own uncertainty about her path.

"Well, I should have my mind made up by the time NEWTs are over…. But what about you, Harry? I suppose Professor McGonagall talked to you about Aurors?" He nodded glumly.

"The application is due on the 28th. I reckon I'll have gotten my Quidditch information a few days before that." Harry said. Hermione nodded understandingly. His destiny and passion, clashing.

"Don't worry, Harry," she consoled, putting her hand on his, "The answer will come to you."

Friday. In exactly one week, they would have their very first NEWT exam. The idea was nothing else but terrifying, so, many had opted to block it out. According to Harry's watch it was four minutes past midnight, but he did not know this. He was awake, yes, but was preoccupied in the task of deeply snogging his girlfriend. He had had a session with Emmeline Vance that night at eight and done well. The only weird thing was that his scar had buzzed anxiously for a few seconds after they had finished. He thought nothing of it and returned to the Tower, continuing his speculation of what Ron had chosen for a career. It had been with him all day, like an annoying pest.

As it was now, he was on top of Hermione, kissing her intensely. They had ceased speaking at 11:23, having been in bed for about 20 minutes, and (supposedly) went to sleep. Well, Harry did. He was roused from it, however, thirty minutes later when he felt Hermione's fingers running over the nape of his neck. Numerous minutes afterward, it had somehow led to their current, fevered snog.

Ah, perchance this was why boyfriends and girlfriends did not normally sleep with one another (under the supervision of adults). Harry moved down to her neck, coddling it four times while his hands ran over her stomach, shoving her tank top up. Hermione stifled a moan as her right leg pitched forward, and her own hands explored his back. This was why—it was too easy, he or she was right there. Lustful thoughts pushed to the back of the brain could spring forward again by feet merely touching.

Doesn't matter, Harry frantically thought, running a hand down her leg, doesn't matter. I deserve it, we deserve it. Was deprived of snogs for a month or more thanks to Him. We forgot us for Him.

He made his way past her neck and started trailing kisses across her collarbone, down to her chest that wasn't covered by her shirt…. She gave an inaudible gasp, eyes beginning to flutter shut. His hand had made it to her thigh and was caressing it.

Hermione bit her lip as he went to suckle her neck once more, breathing heavily in her ear.

What are you doing for him, she asked herself, Are you pleasing him? She supposed so… he surely wasn't complaining. Yes, but you could be doing more… what does he want? An alarming wave of affection for Harry suddenly engulfed her, reminding her how much he meant to her. Oh, I don't know. She was still clueless as to what Harry's weak spot was. One way to find out… experiment. A second voice made its way into her head (was it hers?), dreamlike, and followed by another shocking dose of her emotions regarding him. Find it. Give it to him. Give it all to him. God, he's so wonderful. You need him. Give him everything. Give Harry everything you have.

"Harry." Hermione breathed, writhing underneath him. He stopped mid-kiss and looked down at her. His eyes were clouded and it sent a jolt throughout her body when she looked into them.

"Something wrong?" he questioned, voice rather ragged.

"No," she mouthed, kissing him. She pulled away and searched his face. He was still staring at her, brow drawn a tad in confusion. It was a little while before either moved again, and it was Hermione whom did so first. Biting her bottom lip in determination and concentration, she closed her eyes and started to move very lethargically.

Hermione pivoted her body down at first, and then slowly brought it back up to Harry's level once more. Bringing her legs in closer together on either side, she slid back down and then moved up again, all the while keeping her eyes shut and scarcely breathing. Oh God, oh God, oh God…, she distractedly thought somewhere in the back of her mind.

It did not register in Harry's brain that he should react until about the fourth shift; up until then, he had been mightily shocked. What Hermione was doing was… well, it was down right sensual, and suggestive, if not a bit dodgy. Had she meant to do it? Of course, you prat—she still is! But… but… it seemed so wrong! He shouldn't… she shouldn't… maybe it should cease. Don't you dare, yelled the teenage boy within him, it's… it's amazing and you know it. You like it, and you know it. Don't bother playing the good patron. Indulge yourself—she started it. Harry's eyes closed. Oh Merlin… why did it have to feel so good?

With harsh breaths, to try to calm himself, Harry finally responded. Pressing his body more firmly against hers, he exerted pressure and began to move with her, in her exact, languid motion. (Something in him had screamed at him to join his girlfriend, promising it'd feel even better: it did). Hermione smiled faintly as she felt Harry's hips grind slowly against her own. So… was she doing something right? Oh, it felt fantastic.

Hermione's hands had burrowed themselves underneath his shirt and were groping his chest. His hands held her neck and when they came up, he would occasionally kiss it. Harry's eyes remained shut but the Head Girl's had flown open during a loud gasp drawn from her when they had begun to move more forcefully and quickly. An enormous amount of feelings, foreign and native, seemed to then be dumped on Hermione, making the other instances seem trifling. She didn't want to stop, was what she uncovered. In fact…. It wasn't until Harry let out a substantial groan that he had been holding in that she realized she was… ready. Well… she was! Hermione would have done anything for Harry, and it wasn't as if they were strangers, or had a weak relationship, and, and… and something of Harry's had just made itself known.

She stopped. He did as well, mere seconds afterwards. All right—that had been the single most splendid sensation he had felt in a long time. Why had she halted! And then it dawned on him, quickly. Merlin, no!… He turned as red as a brick and hastily made to detach himself, but she actually held on.

"Harry, i-it's all right! Don't go…" She was looking into his eyes with severe meaning. They were probing his, as if searching for an answer. She didn't seem appalled…

"You're not… not… I…" he stumbled, thoroughly embarrassed. Oh, the joys of being a male. Surely it wasn't his first, but it was with Hermione so very close, and moving in that manner.

"No. It's normal, and understandable. Harry," she timidly said, "I want to… I-I need to know… I, I have to tell…"

"What's wrong?" he asked, still trying to get rid of the humiliation.

"You know what you mean to me, or maybe you don't…. But, the point is, that I… I want to know if you will… if you feel that we're, we're… if you want to…" Hermione did not have to finish, because Harry got what she was attempting to vocalize. The first time she had stopped their snog made sense, and what they had just done made perfect sense. The desperate look she had given him moments earlier also made something in his mind click. Merlin… what Hermione was insinuating was enough to knock the wind out of Harry!

"You… want us to—" he remarked, in a hushed, quiet voice.

"Yes," she confirmed, breathing rapidly and glad to know he understood. She was gazing keenly at him again, "You… do you want to?" God, this was too much! He didn't know what to do, or say, and his head was reeling. Voices immediately erupted, all shouting their advice.

"Yes," Harry mumbled, kissing her mouth, "Yes. I do. I want to, very much. More than you know." It was the blatant truth. Hermione accepted his impassioned kisses with closed eyes. She felt like crying.

"But… I-I can't. I-I won't let myself, Hermione," he reported. She opened her eyes and they were lined with tears, "It's not fair. I-I don't want to throw anything away because of a heated, sudden impulse. I don't want to pressure you into anything. I… I don't want to take advantage of you."

There was silence for a small interval. (He was still lying on top of her). He was willing to bet that most every other male teenager in existence would have pummeled him for turning down his girlfriend's offer, one of such magnitude!

"I offered, Harry—you're not pressuring or taking advantage of me," Hermione softly revealed, finding his hand and taking it, "If I didn't want to, or wasn't ready, then I wouldn't have said anything. Trust me. I just… I just want you to know that I want you to have it. I want you to be my first." He nodded, and once started couldn't seem to desist. It was just so overwhelming!

"So do I," Harry told her, settling his mouth on her throat, "Just you. When we get out of Hogwarts, when we leave school… the first night we're on our own, the first night out of this castle."

"Yes," the Head Girl whispered, nodding her head. He began kissing her neck again as she fought back tears. Hermione didn't know why exactly she was suddenly so emotional… it didn't really have anything to do with his answer. Perhaps she had realized just how serious their relationship was at that instance. She had reached the point at which she was willing, and ready, to lose her virginity to Harry. That was monumental! But it didn't necessarily stop her from being totally afraid, because it was a huge step, and she was afraid. Though, Hermione found irony and truth in knowing that she was both certain of her wants and scared.

Harry was virtually in the same boat. As he kissed her neck one last time before holding her (and eventually falling asleep), he recognized that he had meant every word he had said. He did want to go to that next level with Hermione—his hormones were making that painfully obvious. However, he was also trepid. Would he know what to do? Knowing they had come to this stage in their lives was mind blowing. They had finally discussed it, and would soon have to do something about it. Another thing had come out of their jaunt, something Hermione had been searching for: Harry's weak spot. It seemed she had finally found it. Harry and Hermione fell asleep at 12:32.

A/N: Does anyone know Flitwick's first name? Has JK Rowling ever mentioned it! I need to know! It's vital. There was something else I had to say… oh. Hermione doesn't hate Quidditch-- she just said that cause Harry always endangers himself.